Darkness at Dawn (35 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Jennings
Tags: #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction
The terror of that still pulsed in her.
She pushed at his chest and met an immovable wall. “I said let me go!”
“In just a moment. I want you to warm up first.”
So much had been taken from her. She’d had to put herself back together piece by miserable piece. Now even her dignity had been stripped away, and she was left raw and naked and shivering, all her weaknesses right out there in the open, visible to him.
She couldn’t stand the thought, simply couldn’t stand it.
She began struggling wildly, a low sound of distress coming not from her throat but seemingly from her stomach, from her viscera.
Now the sound rose up within her and became a wild keening, the sound of an animal in pain, as she struggled with the immovable object.
“Jesus. Stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.” He loosened his grip and her right hand shot out, began pummeling him. She was writhing in his grasp, sobbing, face completely wet. Tears weren’t falling from her eyes, they were spurting from them, little fountains of salty wetness welling forth, as if they’d been bottled up and someone had pulled the cork.
She didn’t even know why she was fighting, or even who she was fighting. All she knew what that her body craved some kind of release, physical release, and he provided it—an absolutely unyielding wall she could beat herself against.
The struggle was silent, ferocious, lopsided. Of course. Her entire life her struggles had been entirely lopsided. There was no way she could prevail, no way to keep her dignity, no way to disappear. She could just endure.
In the end she simply lay against him, spent and dazed and ashamed.
As calm seeped back in, she burned with shame. In all the years since the crash and the Palace fire, she should have learned how to cope. And she’d thought she had, until today.
Apparently, there was still a long way to go.
There was no strength to fight anymore. So she simply lay against him, her head tucked up under his chin, his chin resting on the top of her head.
It was an animal kind of comfort he offered, the most basic kind. The kind early humans must have found in caves. Skin contact, body warmth, the reassuring sound of the steady heartbeat of a living creature under her ear.
“Bad nightmare,” Mike said quietly.
There was only one possible answer. “Yes.”
“About the Palace?”
“Yes.”
“You have them often?” Oh God. The moment of truth. She could lie.
No, of course not. I never have nightmares, nightmares are for crazy people. I sleep soundly every night, the sleep of the just. This was a one-off. I have no idea what happened.
How she’d love to say that.
No, of course not. I never have nightmares, nightmares are for crazy people. I sleep soundly every night, the sleep of the just. This was a one-off. I have no idea what happened.
How she’d love to say that.
Then, of course, there was the Truth Option.
He might as well know what kind of lunatic she was. She couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t have another nightmare. She swallowed heavily. “Yes.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered miserably.
His arms tightened briefly, then relaxed.
“You know,” he said calmly, his voice a reassuring deep rumble in his chest, “when I was a kid, nothing bad ever happened to me. I lost my mom to cancer, but I was two when she died. I don’t remember anything about her. My dad was the best father in the entire history of fatherhood and I was a real happy kid. I got myself a wonderful stepmother when I was eight. She’s not really step anything, she was the best mom a boy could have. After they got married, she started popping out kids, my sister, Kathy, then Ben and Joe. Great, great kids. So. When I was fourteen, I was small and scrawny—”
He must have felt her eyebrows rise. He was a full head taller than she was. Her arms were around an incredibly broad chest, packed with dense, hard muscles.
He chuckled. “Yeah, I know. I got my spurt of growth around seventeen. At fourteen I was a real runt. But I loved track and at fourteen qualified for the regionals.
“I trained for that sucker day and night, for months. I wanted that medal so bad I could taste it. On the big day, Dad and Cheryl and Kathy were in the stands, rooting for me. Ben was a baby, but he was rooting for me, too. I could feel it. Joe wasn’t born yet, but later he was my biggest fan. Anyway, when the big day came I was so excited I couldn’t eat. I was popping out of my skin with nerves. When the gun went off, I thought my heart would explode. I ran as hard as I could, and I was catching up with the front runner when I slipped and fell, two hurdles from the finish line. Afterward, Kathy cried for me. I was devastated. I was depressed for two whole months. Didn’t eat, grades dropped. So, there it is. That was my big tragedy at fourteen. A skinned knee and a lost tin medal worth maybe a buck fifty for a regional championship nobody cared about. I don’t think that can compare with watching your parents gunned down in a firefight.”
“You’re a soldier,” Lucy murmured. “You’ve been in your own firefights.” Unlike her, he actually ran toward danger, not away.
“Oh yeah,” he said softly. “I’ve been in my own firefights. I’ve spent the past six years in the Land of Bad Things. But as a full-grown man. Trained to process what was happening, and even then it’s not easy. I can’t even begin to imagine being in a firefight as a kid and watching your parents killed. So I guess you’ve earned your nightmares.”
It was a nice thought. Lucy was listening to his words, but more than anything else, she was letting the tone of his voice seep into her. Low, deep, calm. Lulling. A real Ambien voice.
Sleep came like a warm, soft, dark blanket gently settling over her.
S
EVENTEEN
EVENTEEN
THE PALACE CHILONGO, NHALA THE NEXT DAY
LUCY put down her brush and looked at the manuscript of “The Legend of the Snow Dragon.” It was perfect. It looked brand-new, and it should, because it was. She estimated the paper parchment to be a year old, at most. The ink, ditto. Someone had done a decent job with the calligraphy, however, and if you squinted your eyes and didn’t understand antique manuscripts, you could very well believe that you were looking at an ancient parchment from the dawn of history, foretelling the rise of a great warrior who came from the north. As happenstance would have it, Dan Changa was born in the northernmost province of the country.
Placed under Plexiglas, with a direct light on it creating glare, and kept from the populace by a cordon ten feet out, it was more than enough.
Particularly if General Changa was willing to ensure that the “prophecy” was fulfilled, at the point of a gun.
Lucy rubbed her back. She’d been “cleaning” that damned thing all day. Mike said to wait for him. He was spending the day reconnoitering as quietly as he could.
She missed him. Fiercely. Missed everything about him, his smell, his touch, his warmth.
How surprising. She had always prided herself on her self-sufficiency and here she was . . .
pining
for a man. Longing for him.
pining
for a man. Longing for him.
It was, of course, sex. That potent weapon nature had devised to bring perfectly sane women to do crazy things. Sex with Mike was just off the charts. Her body heated solely at the memory.
So . . . sex was okay. There was a place in her head for that, or at least the concept of it. But, over and above the sex, she missed
him
. The sound of his voice, deep and reassuring. The spark of intelligence in his dark eyes. Not once had she had the feeling that he didn’t understand what she was saying to him. He
got
her. She also had the feeling he understood her background, certainly more than most men she dated.
him
. The sound of his voice, deep and reassuring. The spark of intelligence in his dark eyes. Not once had she had the feeling that he didn’t understand what she was saying to him. He
got
her. She also had the feeling he understood her background, certainly more than most men she dated.
She missed his physical presence, like an ache.
Bonding sex, indeed. She smiled, remembering the utterly serious expression on his face as he put forward his little theory that their pheromones were mating.
Maybe they were.
If only he were here . . .
“Lucy?”
God, that deep voice. She’d recognize it anywhere. In the dark, in a room full of men, all he’d have to do was say her name and she’d know him.
She turned around and forced herself not to leap into his arms. There he was, filling the doorway, strong, reassuring, sexy as hell. She could practically see her pheromones reaching out to his.
Calm, Lucy
, she told herself. The mission first. How frighteningly glad she was to see him was something she’d simply have to tuck away. Think about later.
, she told herself. The mission first. How frighteningly glad she was to see him was something she’d simply have to tuck away. Think about later.
She watched him walk into the room, over to her, and noticed for the first time that gunslinger’s walk, all hips and long legs, eyes focused on the horizon. Or rather, she thought as he drew near, eyes focused on
her
.
her
.
“Hi.” Her voice sounded breathless. Maybe because it was hard to breathe, as if someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. “Did you—”
He kissed her. And kissed her and kissed her.
What she was about to ask, what he might have found out during his scouting, what the plan was for this evening—it all just flew from her head, like startled birds at a hunter’s shot.
She was plastered up against him as close as she could possibly get and tried to get closer. The slight melancholy and loneliness she’d felt all day working alone in the lab dissipated like morning mist under a hot sun. Mike made a very good hot sun, and he was melting her bones.
They both needed air at the exact same second. His mouth lifted from hers, his face harsh, eyes narrowed, as he pulled in a quick breath, and then his mouth descended once more.
A gong sounded, a mournful vibration of the air. Deep, low. The air had scarcely stilled when it sounded again. And again.
“Oh God.” Lucy pushed at Mike’s shoulders, stepped back.
He straightened, watching her face, understanding that something was wrong. “What?”
“Jomo,” she whispered. “The king is dead.”
Lucy took off. Mike was so startled it took him a second to react, by which time she was at the door, flinging it open.
Goddammit! There were guards outside that door, who’d looked him over carefully when he’d walked in. Any guard is trained to react instinctively when the person he’s keeping tabs on takes off at a run.
Mike reached her just as the startled guards shouldered their rifles. His blood ran cold. Lucy stood still, four rifle muzzles pointed at her, a thin drizzle of smoke rising from one of the guard’s cigarettes thrown to the ground.
Mike stepped right in front of her, facing the rifles, and heard four snicks as the guards thumbed their safeties.
Fuck! He wasn’t armed and he was facing four weapons, aimed right at him from three feet away. Not even Granny Shafer, who suffered from Parkinson’s, bless her heart, could miss.
The young soldiers facing him weren’t elite. They were probably country boys, not many months off the farm. They didn’t want to shoot him, they’d rather be shooting the breeze with their buddies, but they would if they had to, that was clear. Two of the muzzles trembled slightly, and Mike looked their owners in the eyes. Determined and scared.
And incapable of missing at that close range.
Lucy said something sharp behind him and stepped to the side, exposing herself. What the hell was she doing? He had reached out to thrust her back behind him, when she touched his arm. “Stand down, soldier,” she murmured and walked right up to the guards.
Right fucking up to them. The muzzle of one of the rifles touched her chest, right at the sternum. One pull of the trigger and the soldier would blow her heart right out of her chest.
Mike vibrated with tension.
Goddamn. He hadn’t signed up for this. He had signed up to fight beside other warriors, men who could take care of themselves and who, like him, were trained to fight. He could do that.
But
this
—he couldn’t do this. Watching Lucy walk right up to the rifle muzzle, knowing she was a breath away from death. Man, no, couldn’t do it. His nerves couldn’t take it.
this
—he couldn’t do this. Watching Lucy walk right up to the rifle muzzle, knowing she was a breath away from death. Man, no, couldn’t do it. His nerves couldn’t take it.
He was about ready to jump her, take her to the floor, flatten himself on top of her, hoping the bullets wouldn’t go through him to her, knowing they would, when she started talking.
You’d think that a woman talking to four armed soldiers who were pointing their weapons right at her, well, you’d think she’d talk to them in cajoling tones. Soft, gentle voice. Beseeching.
But no. Lucy’s voice was sharp, commanding. She wasn’t persuading, she was ordering. Soldiers. Armed soldiers.
Mike prepared to take her to the floor.
Another gong sounded three times and Lucy said something else, sharp and angry.
Fuck, this was not going to end well . . .
And then the soldiers took a step back, bringing their rifle muzzles up. Two of the soldiers were sweating. All of them stared at the floor. Classic submission behavior. The two middle soldiers moved, one left, the other right, opening up a path in the solid wall they’d presented.
And Lucy took off again. Mike kept pace easily.
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